


Miles To Go Before I Sleep

by Jinko



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7023199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinko/pseuds/Jinko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst thing about not being under was trying to go back to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles To Go Before I Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt: 16. “If you want, we could go together?”
> 
> It's rather fluffy, if I say so myself.
> 
> Title from Robert Frost.

The worst thing about not being under was trying to go back to sleep.

Sleep didn’t come easy. It hadn’t been easy for two generations; not when he was surrounded by a strange new world, where he could hear the high-pitched buzzing of a phone charger, or when he was camped out, trying to sleep on a bed roll that did nothing to soften the rocks underneath as he listened to gunfire from the nearby battle grounds.

Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt at ease, but the home he had in Wakanda was as safe as any home he’d had since before the war started. It was a house on King T’Challa’s property, and therefore had a king’s protection. It was also a home he shared with Steve, Sam and Wanda. Clint and Scott had elected to live on their own, but Bucky wouldn’t have lived anywhere without Steve, and wherever Steve went, Sam went, and Steve wasn’t going to leave Wanda behind. 

He was surrounded by two fellow war veterans and another fellow HYDRA experiment. They were as messed up as the next, having seen and lived through the terrors of war, and having felt the personal loss that tears at your heart, making it difficult to think you’ll make it through the next day. 

It was the closest Bucky could get to being around people who had similar experiences, which is why he didn’t find it surprising at all that the television was on all night, every night, because someone in the house couldn’t sleep, or the smell of hot-chocolate always filled the air (Sam had somehow converted everyone to drinking it for comfort). 

But at night, when they were in their own rooms, trying to sleep, Bucky was left alone to stew in his thoughts. Sometimes he’d prefer it that way. He was always worrying that he was going to hurt someone, even though they’d deprogrammed his brain to respond to those words, and he trusted that no one in the house would say them. He was also glad that he wasn’t alone, that he was living with both Steve and Wanda. While they hadn’t tested it with Wanda, he was sure she could put him down if she needed to. The worry returned when he thought about what he could do to Sam, though. Both Sam and Steve had reassured him that if anything happened (though, they also reassured him that nothing would happen), Sam would get himself his wings and fly off to safety. 

And one night, just when he thought he was going to sleep well, thanks to the help of a book and a mug of passionflower tea (T’Challa had been kind enough to provide them with whatever they needed, and a therapist friend he had had suggested passionflower tea for the team, which helped with anxiety (which the team had in spades) and insomnia), he came across a word in the book that had his heart racing. 

_ Benign _ . 

Fuck. 

He added the book to the box he had in his basically bare closet. That box had three books that had triggering words or phrases. It was a box he didn’t like to think about.

Bucky instead pulled out a book he knew was trigger-free and tucked himself in after reading it for thirty minutes, hoping it would be long enough to get that word out of his mind.

It hadn’t been.

He woke up not even two hours later, right hand clenched like it had been in his nightmare. The night was a waste.

Bucky dragged himself out of his large bed and padded out into the common area of the house, wearing his soft pyjama pants and the tee-shirt Steve had been wearing the day they’d been smuggled into Wakanda. 

No one was up, or if they were, they were sticking to their bedrooms. He moved straight to the TV and turned it on, just for a little bit of light and noise in the background, before he made himself a cup of hot-chocolate. They were running low on the instant powder sachets, so he made a note to have T’Challa’s people to buy them some more with their weekly groceries. 

He settled on the couch in front of the television to watch whatever it was that was playing. Despite knowing as many languages as he did, Bucky hadn’t had much luck with the language the Wakandans spoke. There’d been no one around for him to learn it from and the TV shows didn’t have English subtitles. 

He’d been up for maybe half an hour when he heard someone join him.

“Can’t sleep?”

Bucky tipped his head back to see Steve standing over him, resting his hands on either side of his head on the back of the couch. 

“Nightmares,” Bucky grumbled and tapped his ring finger against the warm mug. The clinking of the Vibranium against the ceramic wasn’t rhythmic at all, but Bucky liked to hear it. He liked to know that he had his limb back and liked it even better knowing that it was made by Wakandans to replace an arm he’d lost, not a weapon made by HYDRA for the sole purpose of killing. 

Steve sighed. “I feel that. How hot’s the kettle?” Bucky lifted the mug for Steve to feel. Lukewarm. “I’ll boil another one, then.”

The kettle made more noise than Bucky’s tapping did. It was a sound they were all used to, from everyone’s obsession with hot-chocolate to Wanda’s new-found love for Cup-a-Soups. It was oddly comforting. 

“What are we watching?” Steve asked when he came back with his steaming mug. He sat on the couch beside Bucky, but he was angled so he was facing his old friend, his left leg tucked under him while his right rested on the floor. 

So Bucky supposed Steve was watching him, rather than the television, not that he minded. 

“I’m not sure,” he answered honestly and gulped down a mouthful of his drink. 

They fell silent. The only noises they made for the next episode was Bucky’s tapping of his mug and Steve’s blowing on the hot-chocolate to cool it down enough for him to drink. At one point, they both heard water rushing through the pipes beneath them as someone showered. They both knew it was Wanda. She liked to shower when her mind got the better of her, like she was cleansing herself. Sam was working with her on that, trying to get her to talk it out with him. 

Sam’s method of talking it out was spreading. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Steve asked and shuffled a little closer to Bucky. He held onto the handle of the mug but let it rest on the top of Bucky’s knee, letting him soak in the warmth. Bucky felt like there should’ve been a joke in there about ninety-year-old knees but didn’t form it. 

“Same as always,” Bucky shrugged and reached out to rub a pair of flesh fingers over Steve’s wrist. Steve’s other hand was in his own hair, his arm was propped up on the back of the couch. He focused on that point of contact. It was better than focusing on what Steve had asked of him. 

Maybe one day he’d be able to read words like ‘benign’ and ‘furnace’ and not remember every terrible thing he’d ever done (he’d been forced to do, he mentally reminded himself. It was something Steve, Sam and T’Challa had tried to get him to work on, putting the blame on the right people). He just couldn’t see it happening any time soon.

“I dreamt about that kid in France. Couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Remember him?” 

_ Seventeen _ . Bucky tried not to flinch. Or vomit. So he focused on the kid instead.

“Tiny kid. Couldn’t believe someone so small could have so much blood in him.” The issue quickly turned from how much blood he had in him to how much of his blood was rushing out of him after a bullet tore through his neck. He’d died in a matter of seconds and he’d only been a civilian they were trying to get to safety after they’d stumbled upon the battle, having dealt with their own mission. The team had felt like they’d failed him; had all felt like this kid’s death was on their hands. 

They didn’t say anything else about the kid. They didn’t have to. Steve sipped on his hot-chocolate in silence but always dropped it down to Bucky’s knee so Bucky could touch him again. Bucky let his go cold.

“The ones that get to me,” Bucky started softly, “are the ones I killed with my right hand.” There were so many like Maria Stark. He hadn’t always had the ability to feel with the metal, it was something they worked on for years. It was a cold, unfeeling weapon for so long, but his right arm? That was all him and he’d felt every death, every murder, every last shaking breath. 

“HYDRA did that,” Steve said, just like he always did. Bucky rolled his eyes, just like he always did. 

But Steve didn’t push any further. Sam had also told them there was no good in forcing more out of a person than they were willing to give. 

He finished off his drink instead while Bucky watched what they figured was a soap opera, if the over-acting was any indication. It looked like Neema (Bucky guessed that was her name) had come back from being dead. He wasn’t that surprised. He’d caught the episode where she’d gone missing after the housekeeper had found a trail of blood leading from the bathroom to the back door, and despite them having the funeral two episodes later, they’d never shown the body. He’d watched it all the other night, because he’d struggled to sleep that night, too, and this channel seemed to play at least five episodes straight every night. 

It was good to focus on something so miniscule while every other moment in his life seemed so dire. 

He felt Steve move in even closer, radiating heat. It was nice.

“We should be getting to bed,” Steve said and Bucky scrunched his nose up at the idea. Steve touched his shoulder gently, before raising his hand to run it through Bucky’s hair. It was far more comforting than the hot-chocolate, so Bucky leant into it. “If you want, we can go together?”

And really, Bucky didn’t want to try to sleep in some giant bed, even though it’d be next to Steve. They’d shared beds before, it was nothing new, but it was always something Bucky loved.

“Here,” Bucky said instead and patted the couch cushion he was sitting on. “Just here. Us two.”

“Yeah?”

Bucky nodded his head just slightly so he wouldn’t dislodge Steve’s hand from his hair. 

“Okay,” Steve almost whispered and shifted closer, wrapping his hand around the other side of Bucky’s head to pull him in closer. He nuzzled Bucky’s hairline, maybe brushed his lips above his ear, and gently squeezed his thigh with his other hand. “I’ll be right back.”

He hoped he’d felt what he’d felt. 

Bucky nodded again, just to let Steve know he was acknowledging him, and Steve pulled back away to get up off the couch and disappear down the hall towards the bedrooms. While he was gone, Bucky moved his half-empty and now-cold mug to the coffee table and shifted the loose, mismatching cushions (he had a feeling they were second-hand and were meant to make the place feel less like a stylish royal house and more like a home people had lived in all their lives) to the floor to make room for them, not that there was much room for two six-feet-tall super-soldiers on a three-seater couch.

Steve returned with a doona and a pillow. He handed Bucky the doona, then shoved the pillow next to the arm of the couch and reclined to rest his head on it. Bucky draped himself in the blanket and cuddled into Steve’s open arms, laying himself down between Steve’s legs and tucking his head under Steve’s chin as he felt Steve’s arms wrapping around his back. 

That time, when Steven nuzzled at him again, he knew he felt for sure the press of a kiss, and chose to tip his head up to press one of his own to Steve’s stubbled chin. 

It didn’t feel like it was the start of something even though it was the first time they’d been so bold with each other. The love had always been there, so it felt more like taking a step together instead of jumping off a cliff together. 

They might not have fallen asleep straight away, might have watched a few more episodes of whatever it was on the television, but when his eyes finally drifted shut for the final time before Sam would accidentally wake them getting his morning coffee, it was to blissful darkness and Steve’s love, not the frightened faces of HYDRA’s victims.

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever stucky fic, wows. I hope it was enjoyed.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr as [jinkohamilton](http://jinkohamilton.tumblr.com).


End file.
